


The Adventure Of The Fenland Assassin (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [113]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Assassination, Destiel - Freeform, Dogs, F/M, France (Country), Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Monks, Murder, Politics, Revenge, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 06:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11142726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The often deadly world of French politics seems miles away from the quiet Lincolnshire fens, but a four-legged emissary of justice links them and helps to bring justice on a killer. At least, on one killer.....





	The Adventure Of The Fenland Assassin (1889)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessgolux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Huret, the Boulevard Assassin'.

In most of my friend's cases, matters started with his help being requested and ended in a successful conclusion. However, this particular case was somewhat different. It was unpublished at the time for two reasons, the first of which was that Sherlock (who was always far too hard on himself) counted it as a failure, when 'solving' it was virtually impossible, given the circumstances. The second reason was that, as so often, it involved the application of justice rather than the law, and allowing a man who was guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt to go free. He had to be allowed to live out the rest of his life in peace, and only his death a few years back, and a letter that he sent to me on his death-bed, have allowed me to publish this tale in this final canon.

To begin with, I must explain certain events that had recently occurred in Great Britain's old enemy, new ally and political basket-case across the English Channel, France. That country was still recovering from the shock of seeing German troops marching into Paris less than two decades back, and having the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine wrested from her into a new and suddenly united enemy across the Rhine. Worse, France had been constitutionally unstable ever since, and earlier in the year General Georges Boulanger had looked set to be elected to power, only for his enemies to outwit him and force him to flee. There would, incidentally, be further fallout from that event for Sherlock and myself in a later and even darker case.

Power, they say, is a potent aphrodisiac, and those intent on denying General Boulanger victory had been unscrupulous in their means of stopping him. One of the general's chief advisers had been a Mr. Didier Étrange, a lieutenant in the French army who had married an Englishwoman, a Miss Cecilia Mayberry. Earlier this year the couple had been shot dead at their home in Le Mans, almost certainly by order of the General's enemies, but their only son, Harry, had himself managed to shoot and injure the attacker who, it soon emerged, had been none other than the infamous Huret, the Boulevard Assassin. Harry Strange, eighteen years of age, had not unnaturally decided to quit France for the safety of England, subsequently moving to Lincolnshire and a small house recently acquired by his English grandparents.

It will be understood by the reader that it was in the interests of just about everyone involved to find Huret (so little was known about the man that we did not even know if that was his first, last or even his real name). The new French government was anxious to stop him exposing their criminality - preferably by placing him six feet under - whilst the British and German governments were seeking him to either hand him over to the French or get him to talk and embarrass Paris most horribly. The hunt for the killer was on – and we were about to become part of it.

+~+~+

I have to say that only very rarely have I considered a fellow man 'beautiful'. I have seen many men who qualified as handsome and thought nothing of it because I had Sherlock, who had a strange sort of inner beauty that shone through his often scruffy exterior like a light-house beaming its guiding rays through a piece of fine silk. Yet the man currently sat in the famous fireside chair at baker Street, Mr. Harry Strange, had that sort of beauty which the Ancient Greeks captured so well in their statues, his fine physique and fair, curly hair setting off a boyish yet manly face. It was the sort of figure that one sometimes seems advertising gentleman's nightwear in the papers, and immediately dismisses as too idealized because no man could look that good, even in Kitts' Best-Quality Pyjamas. I was not jealous, of course. 

And someone could bloody well stop smirking like that!

“I am passing through London after seeing my Uncle Geoffrey down in Kent”, our visitor explained, “and I wanted to call in on you, Mr. Holmes. I know that you sometimes take cases that seem strange in the extreme, but what little I have to lay before you today is as insubstantial as a summer breeze. Yet I find it puzzling, given the few facts involved, and I should like your opinion on the matter.”

Sherlock smiled at him.

“Pray proceed”, he said. 

“As I am sure you both know”, the young man began, “I was there when that villain Huret killed my parents. I was only spared because my late father, showing great foresight, had trained me up in the use of a weapon. I shot the rat and managed to hit his principal hand, which prevented him from using his weapon; as you know he used a personalized gun, which was how his evil handiwork was recognized. He himself managed to escape, and has disappeared despite what I am sure are strong efforts to locate him by more than one country.”

“I was physically uninjured in the attack, but the doctors insisted that I spend some time recovering from the shock. However, I have a passionate hatred of hospitals, so I spent my time at home with regular visits from a doctor and a nurse. It was during that time that I acquired Bones. He was a stray dog, whom I found going through the rubbish outside my house one day. A mongrel, but I took to him at once. As I am sure you are aware, the British authorities rightly insist on a period of quarantine for animals coming from the Continent, so once I had had him checked out over there, I sent him on ahead and set about sorting out my own move to England. I was exceedingly fortunate that my Uncle Geoffrey lives in Deal, quite close to Dover where my new pet was kept in kennels, so whilst staying with him I could visit Bones until his time was up. We then repaired to my grandparents' house – they had just purchased it for their own retirement, but they very kindly delayed their move so that I could use it for a couple of years. It is in the tiny Lincolnshire hamlet of Restrick.

“Which Part of Lincolnshire?” Sherlock asked.

“Holland. It is about five miles west of Boston, but on a small dirt-track road that is only there to serve the hamlet and the restored Cistercian abbey, which lies about a mile to the north. It ends at the abbey; It used to continue through to the main road at Tattershall, but a farmer was allowed to extend his field over it, although he had to leave a path by the hedgerow.”

“So pray tell us what has happened to disturb you”, Sherlock asked. “I assume that it concerns this 'Bones'?”

The young man nodded.

“It is the strangest thing”, he said, frowning. “Bones was very happy in the cottage, and I took him out for walks every day. Then three weeks ago, he suddenly disappeared.”

“Stolen?” I asked. The young man shook his head.

“He had run off to the abbey, for some reason”, he said. “One of the brothers brought him back, and was very apologetic about it. The place is all open, of course, and they found the dog sitting in the herb-garden. I could not understand it, so dismissed it as unimportant. Then two days later, it happened again.”

“The herb-garden again?” I asked. He nodded.

“Unless the dog has some strange passion for herbs and spices, I cannot make head nor tail of it.” He smiled ruefully. “I did say that it was not much of a case.”

“On the contrary”, Sherlock smiled. “Has the dog run off since?”

“On one further occasion, a week days after the second one”, the young man said. “I knew where to go, this time. The brothers were quite apologetic, and yet....”

He stopped. We both looked at him.

“And yet what?” Sherlock prompted. The young man frowned.

“I may be mistaken”, he said, “but I had the strongest suspicion that the Father Abbot was hiding something from me. I may of course have been imagining it, but that was the impression that I got when I met him.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment.

“This case most definitely intrigues me”, he said, to both my and our young visitor's surprise. “You say that you found the dog outside your house in France, after the attack. How long after?”

“Three days”, the young man said. “It was by the alleyway where all the bins are put out, so animals often scavenge there. I saw a wild fox there once, and there were always the neighbourhood cats, hunting for vermin.”

“I would like to travel to the English Holland and investigate your case further”, Sherlock frowned, “but unfortunately, at this precise moment I am tied up in a somewhat delicate matter involving Her Majesty's Government who, being Her Majesty's Government, expect one hundred and ten per cent of my time. Were I to quit London at this precise moment, my brother Bacchus might quite well have a conniption which, I suppose, might be considered a bad thing by some people. However, it will all come to a conclusion this week, one way or another, so I would like to come up with the doctor and call on you this Saturday, if that is acceptable?”

The young man was still clearly surprised that his small matter has elicited such interest from the great detective, but thanked us both and gave us his card before leaving. I was going to question Sherlock on the matter once he was gone, but I noticed that he looked oddly serious.

“Is there more to this matter than meets the eye?” I asked. “A runaway dog does not exactly seem important?”

He sighed.

“I am rather afraid that there is much more to it, my friend”, he said. “And that this is one of those cases when justice and the law may diverge onto very different tracks, necessitating us to choose the former.”

“I did not know that you were involved in a government case just now”, I said, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. He smiled at me.

“I am not”, he said. “But I wished to have a few days to make certain inquiries into this case.”

“You think that the boy did not tell us the truth?” I asked, surprised. 

“I am sure that everything he said in this room was the gospel truth”, he answered.

I looked at him suspiciously. I knew him well enough by now to spot when he was not quite answering my question. Of course, I had about as much chance of working out why as I did of swimming all the way to our new client's country of birth!

+~+~+

Sherlock asked me to go down the library to investigate the local abbey, saying that background information was always valuable. I had a feeling that he was just being kind to me in allowing me to help solve the case, and I wondered if his brother had not been right to send him that dog collar. Fortunately the library had a recently-acquired book on the history of the Cistercians, which proved most useful.

“They came back to England over forty years ago”, I said, “establishing a small abbey in Leicestershire. Restrick is only their second foundation, and is nearly ten years old, although the old Cistercians had an abbey there for centuries. Like almost all religious bodies they have had their own schisms, and both the 'new' abbeys are from the Trappist order.”

“Interviewing someone who is not allowed to talk”, Sherlock smiled. “That adds another layer of difficulty to the case. Is not the whole area close to or below sea-level in places?”

“That is an interesting tale in itself”, I said. “When bad old King Henry the Eighth sent his men to close down the old abbey, the brothers took what they could and abandoned the place before they arrived, then deliberately broke the dykes and flooded the land, drowning the men sent to dispossess them. It is in a fairly empty area – the hamlet of Restrick is on the only high ground, and that became an island for a time back then. The dykes were not fully repaired for many years.”

He was doing that morose staring into space thing again, which always presaged something that I would not like. I sighed.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“We have known each other for too long if you can read me like that!” he deflected.

“Sherlock!”

“I am just nervous about this case”, he said. 

I stared at him in astonishment.

“You are nervous about a lost dog?” I asked incredulously. He shook his head.

“I am nervous because I fear that you will not be happy with the eventual outcome of this case”, he said. “You are too good and true for some of the deceptions that I have to make in my line of work, my friend.”

He looked so depressed that I got up and crossed to the couch, taking a seat at one end and looking pointedly at him. He reddened, but left his seat and joined me, laying down length-ways so his head rested on my leg. I toyed with the unruly hair and he sighed happily.

“I know that I have not always reacted well in the past when you applied justice rather than the letter of the law”, I admitted, “but I know you and your ways much better now. I promise, Sherlock, I will always stand by you. No matter what you do.”

He nestled closer to me, and I smiled down at him. He was frankly adorable at times like this, and I was so lucky to have him in my life!

+~+~+

On Thursday, Sherlock received a large sheaf of documents from his lounge-lizard of a brother. I would like to say that Mr. Bacchus Holmes was actually fulfilling his obligations for once, but Sherlock's initial request for help had been met by a curt reply that the government official was busy, but would try to find time for his brother when he was less so. I was not sure whether or not I wanted to know the story behind the one-word telegram Sherlock sent round to him in response that morning – 'Rhubarb' – but the documents that he was now perusing had been delivered before luncheon, and by special courier. He spent all that day looking through the documents, and I did not ask him about them. If he wanted to tell me anything, then he would. 

At least he told me about the cryptic message later. All I can say is, argh!

+~+~+

It said something about the railway age that even somewhere the size of Langrick, whose population could not have exceeded three figures, had its own railway station. Changes at Peterborough and Boston were all that was needed before we were alighting at a small and seemingly deserted wayside station outside which an ancient (and somewhat leaning) white finger-post sign pointed to the village in one direction and 'Restrick and Restrick Abbey Only' in the other. I found the countryside eerily.... well, flat. I knew of course that this was the Fens, and that a large part was as everyone knows below sea-level and only maintained by a network of ditches and dykes, but it sill unnerved me to see mile upon mile of nothingness. Even a small hillock would have been nice.

Mr. Strange had offered to come an collect us, but Sherlock preferred to walk as it was only half a mile to his cottage, one of only five buildings in the hamlet of Restrick. A tiny church-cum-chapel, a farmhouse and two cottages made up the rest of this not-quite metropolis.

Bones was very much as I had expected, one of what is called an 'all-sorts' dog. I tend to dislike most pedigree species, feeling that too many are bred to standards that are demanding to the point of unhealthiness, so I liked this part Labrador, part Alsatian and part something else. Possibly hearth-rug.

“He has not run off since you came to us?” I asked.

“He has not”, Mr. Strange said. “I should have telegraphed you otherwise.”

“I think that it would be beneficial if we were to attend on Father Abbot up at the monastery”, Sherlock said. “We should go there today.”

I was a little surprised at the haste, but I supposed that, since the cottage was only small, he was considering finding lodgings somewhere else rather than having to bed down in Mr. Strange's tiny cottage. Sherlock asked our client to come with us, which I assumed was because he was local to the area.

+~+~+

Restrick Abbey was a small place, its most notable feature being the whitewashed walls that made it visible almost as soon as we left the hamlet, over a mile away. The ruins of the old and much larger abbey adjoined it, and as elsewhere in this country we could see for miles in all directions. Sherlock gave his card to the gate-keeper and asked if the Father Abbot might spare some time, and soon after the three of us were admitted into a small but well-maintained study, where an elderly man in white vestments stared at us with interest.

“What, may I ask, brings you to our little abbey, gentlemen?” he asked politely. “I hope that it is not in pursuit of some hardened criminal?”

Sherlock seated himself comfortable before answering.

“Not exactly”, he said. “I am afraid that pursuit of the criminal in question would be extremely difficult.”

He briefly ran through the events concerning the assassination of Mr. Strange's parents, and I noted that he made it as relatively painless as possible for the young man with us.

“Now”, Sherlock said, “we come to the problem at hand. You see, Father, I can see a way in which matters might have developed from that dreadful event. Fortunately it can be supported from the available evidence and, as my irritating brother who works for the government knows of Mr. Strange's connection to this 'Huret' that everyone wishes to find, he will be expecting answers. And like one of those Turkish rug salesmen, he will not go away until he has a result.”

“Have you found this man?” the Father asked.

“I do not know exactly where he is”, Sherlock admitted, “but I do know how he got there. Let me advance the following hypothesis.”

“It is truly said that no matter how hard you hide, your sins will find you out”, he began. “So it was with Monsieur Huret. Having committed his heinous crime on behalf of the French government, he knows that there are many people after him, some who want to kill him and, worse, some who want to torture him to confess his employers' plans, and then kill him. I asked myself; if I were in his situation, where would I hide out?”

“The killings took place in a small town in the Maine region of France, specifically the town of Le Mans. In that town there is a Cistercian monastery, and it is that that gives the criminal his idea. He will steal a set of vestments, flee the country as a hermit, and hide out in a small establishment somewhere overseas. England only has two such places, so he chooses one of those and comes to Restrick. I believe that I am not wrong in stating that, a short time back, a wandering hermit came here seeking shelter before he resumed his journey?”

The Father nodded. I noted that he suddenly looked a little wary.

“Most unfortunately for Monsieur Huret, the Fates have taken note of his crime and have marked him down for justice”, Sherlock went on. “For barely a mile away is a cottage owned by the family of the boy who he has made an orphan, and unbeknownst to him, the young man who recently shot at him has moved into that same cottage. But even now, his luck may have held. This is after all a Trappist order, so contact with the outside world is minimal, and there was no reason for the boy to ever visit the holy house.”

“But the killer's luck does not hold. One of the facets of Monsieur Huret's character is that he is a master of disguise, and as part of his efforts to get close to his well-protected target this time, he has acquired a dog. It is human nature to think better of a man who has a well cared for animal in his possession, after all. After the shootings he decides to abandon it, and it is found by young Mr. Strange here. The law of averages duly plays out, and one day Mr. Strange takes his dog for a walk in the direction of this place. We know how potent the canine sense of smell is, and Bones immediately tries to rejoin his old master.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“I am hazarding at the next part”, he said with a smile, “but I think I hazard well. Your 'hermit' claimed that it was time that he was on his way, and departed shortly after the dog made his last visit. Am I correct?”

The monk drew a deep breath.

“The doctor's books underplay your divine talent, sir”, he said. “You are correct in every particular.”

Sherlock smiled.

+~+~+

We had a brief tour of the place, and then Mr. Strange drove us back to the cottage. It was as I have said only a small place, so Sherlock and I opted to spend only a further half an hour with him before taking our leave. I was still mulling over the escape of the assassin when my friend suddenly turned to our host.

“There is one thing that needs to be said quite categorically”, he said, and his tone was suddenly severe. “Mr. Strange, I do hope that after today, you and I _never_ have cause to meet again?”

That seemed a little rude, I thought, but the young man accepted it well enough and drove us back to the station before bidding us farewell. Once he had gone I turned to Sherlock.

“What was all that about?” I asked. “He seemed a pleasant enough young fellow.”

“For a murderer”, Sherlock said calmly. 

I looked at him in astonishment. It was fortunate that I was sat on a solid railway station bench, for my world spun around me.

“A murderer?” I asked, my voice suddenly high.

“He murdered the man who killed his parents”, Sherlock said simply. “Doubtless Huret's body is weighted and lying at the bottom of a dyke somewhere in the area. You saw how open and featureless the countryside is; the odds on finding it without the help of the man who put it there are virtually nil.”

“But how?” I asked. “I mean, how can you know?”

He smiled at me.

“The probability of his ending up a mile from the man who killed his parents is frankly infinitesimal”, he said. “I checked, and he neglected to mention that he tracked the man from Maine to Lincolnshire using a private detective agency, and only then arranged for his grandparents to buy the cottage close by the abbey. He suspected that the dog might have been used by Monsieur Huret as part of his disguise, and that fitted neatly into his story, although I am sure that he would have obtained a dog in France and shipped it over had it been necessary.”

My head swam.

“But why bring you in on it?” I asked. “You might turn him over to the police.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“He knows from your estimable works that I follow justice before the letter of the law”, he said. “It is an excellent move on his part, I have to admit. I investigate, a cover story emerges that will satisfy Huret's pursuers - including Bacchus - and prevent them doing anything awkward like looking for bodies in the Lincolnshire Fens, so all is well. That is why I spoke to him the way I did at the cottage; like Macbeth, the first crime is too often the start of a slippery slope. But, I think, not in this case. He has what he wanted, the blood of the man who killed his parents.”

“Is the Father Abbot in on it too?” I asked. 

“I do not doubt that Mr. Strange confessed all to him, and stated his plans beforehand”, Sherlock said. “The Father would have been in a most difficult position. The confession is sacrosanct, as we know, but he would not take an active part in ending another man's life, no matter what foul act he had committed. Standing aside and letting someone else do it, however, was another matter.”

“So we let another killer go free”, I sighed. 

Almost too late did I see his shoulders sag. As I heard the train approaching, I leant over and kissed him on the cheek. He blushed.

“And I would have done exactly the same!” I said firmly.

He smiled at me, happy again. I would have done anything for one of those smiles.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, a detective lies dying, and four fearsome savages prepare for dinner – a human dinner!


End file.
